Chapter 1 #2
I take another gulp to forge myself some personal space, my next words hissed. “Veya, my sister. Kyzari, my niece. And Roan, my alchemist. I’ve sent them all larks,” I say, swirling the liquid in my glass. “I’m impatient to hear back.”
An understatement.
The chasm left by Raeve’s absence is packed with restless anxiety that feels like lightning bolts, forking into all my tender muscle and sinew. I’d let Grihm beat me into a pulp just to draw the focus elsewhere, but he’s not around. Nobody’s around.
“Ahh. Let me consult.” Borg gusts to a respectable distance, withering into a sheet of mist that drifts across the ground.
“Take your time,” I murmur, then fill my mouth with another gulp. Doing my best to numb myself.
I’ve almost emptied the glass when Borg recongeals into his regular shape. “I have information on your alchemist,” he announces, voice pitched with hungry glee. Like a loyal beast that just caught a rodent and dumped it on my pillow.
“Nothing on the others?”
“Not at this stage. But my brothers are listening.”
I nod and pour myself another drink that I drain in three deep gulps, burning my throat raw. “What are you craving this dae?”
“Young Kaan,” he blurts, vibrating with excitement—his fingers clawing at the air like spindly tick legs. “Something truly mouthwatering, given you stuffed me in a drawer for so long.”
“Fair,” I mutter, thumping my empty glass on the table. Truth be told, it could’ve been worse.
Given the current state of things, reliving any memory from after Elluin left for Arithia might’ve kicked me over the edge.
I tip my head against the headrest and close my eyes, feeling Borg encroach like a sticky cloud wafting against me, hands padding at my shoulders, neck, then jaw, fingers splaying around my cheeks.
He finally finds balance.
There’s the distant, cyclonic sound of his mouth opening, heaving with intensity until it overshadows the thumping pound of my heart. Then the plunging sensation, like a cold tongue is slithering down my throat, shoving past my physical layers.
Through the fibers of my soul.
Still, it pushes … finally slitting up into the shape of a hook fierce enough to flay me from within.
I fist a particularly painful memory nesting in the embers of my volcanic insides, lift it up, and wrestle it onto the hook. Borg hums with glee, dragging it up in steady increments—
“He’s just a youngling!” Mahmi’s voice is so loud and sad it makes my heart hurt. “Please, Ostern! Please, have mercy—”
“Get her back to the Fortress!” Pahpi growls over his shoulder, his big hand squeezing my arm so tight I think my bone is going to snap as he charges across the courtyard, dragging me behind him. Four of my fast, scrambling steps for every two of his.
Guards rush to grab Mahmi despite her big, swollen belly, hauling her back the way we came.
She screams my name so loud her voice cracks, cut off as the doors slam shut between us.
Pahpi’s dragon circles overhead, close enough to stir the air, blasting sand into my eyes.
I screw up my face, blink really fast, trying to force my tears back down. If I can just stop crying, maybe I’ll be allowed to run back to Mahmi and make sure she’s okay.
But the tears won’t stop. No matter how hard I try, more keep coming out.
We pass from the courtyard, under wiggly trees, down some jagged stairs while I scramble to keep up.
My legs finally give way.
The burning ground grates skin from my knees and hip, leaving a trail of blood. Like one of my clay markers smudging across the parchment.
I’m chafed raw, stinging all over by the time Pahpi lets go of my arm and stands over me like a tower. As I scramble back, my hand falls down the edge of something, making my heart jump.
I peek over my shoulder at the hole behind me, like a dark throat waiting to swallow …
A warm wetness spreads through my pants.
“Look at me, Kaan.”
I wipe the tears from my eyes so I can see Pahpi clearer, the sun blazing at his back making him look like an angry shadow.
His dark hair is tucked beneath his bronze crown, sitting just above the deep lines crushed between his hard eyes. My gaze drifts to the three beads dangling from his ear …
Red.
Brown.
Clear.
My chin wobbles as I look at the orange mug in his fist, shaped with my own hands. And with no help from Bulder.
Pahpi is always telling me to shape this, shape that, shape, shape, shape! But the things I give him are never good enough because my words come out in bits. But I’m good with my hands. I thought maybe if I made him something perfect, he’d be happy.
All I wanted was a smile …
“Why are you crying?”
Because my heart hurts.
Because I worked for daes and daes on that mug for Pahpi, only for him to look at it like he’s looking at me now. Like he’s disappointed.
I wipe more tears from my eyes. “I d-d-don’t know …”
“Is it because I’ve hurt your feelings?”
I glance at the mug in his hand, cutting back to Pahpi’s big brown boots. Easier to look at than his angry face.
“Your heart is too soft, Kaan. Just like your mah’s. Just like this mug.”
He squeezes his fist.
CRACK.
Shards of pottery crumble across the ground like the shattered bits of my heart.
I swallow my sob, but it burns going down. Like I just swallowed the sun.
“I know you think I’m hard on you—your grandpah was hard on me, too—but you forget you’re the son of a king, born with shortfalls that could tarnish the Vaegor legacy.”
The words come out like a dragon’s growl, big and hurting.
Pahpi crouches, his red riding leathers tight across his wide shoulders as he points at the shards.
“The time you spent shaping that gift should’ve been spent on your stutter.
Spent shaping yourself into someone worthy of the crown that’s been worn by a Vaegor ever since the phase our ancestor first mounted a Sabersythe. ”
I study the crown on his head. All those sharp points poking toward the sky.
How do I tell him I don’t want to be worthy of it? That I just want to be worthy of a hug, or a smile.
Of him.
His face softens. But then he looks at the two beads Mahmi’s been braiding through my hair since I first heard Ignos and Bulder … though not Clode or Rayne like Pahpi hoped.
His upper lip peels back. “Show me something I can be proud of, or you’re better off as a servant.”
He shoves me.
Though I’m expecting it, it doesn’t stop my belly from dropping so fast I almost spew, falling backward into the dark.
I hit the ground so hard my breath stops. My ears ring and my head goes light. I drag in a breath, feeling another hurt in my chest—like something broke inside me, now digging into important things.
I look up at the light above, round and pale like a Moonplume moon—
Pahpi leans over the edge. His neck muscles strain as he says a phrase I’ve never been able to get right, no matter how many times he’s tossed me in this hole.
Bulder shudders around me, then chomps shut—caging me in a darkness so hot and thick it clogs my throat.
But I manage to speak, stuttering a command that only makes Bulder break into bits that slam into my head and almost crush me.
I try again, so much dirt and broken stone packing around me that I can barely move.
The scared feeling in my chest takes over.
I scream, cry, claw at the jagged darkness. Beg Bulder to listen to my broken words. Not that any of it helps. Not that it ever does.
Because my words don’t work properly.
Because I’m not a tri-bead like Pahpi.
Because I’m weak, soft-hearted, useless—
Borg stops drinking, loosening his hold on me. Like hooking a fish through the guts, then releasing it into the Loff despite the fact that its innards are hanging out.
I gasp, eyes wide open as the memory slithers down and coils back amongst my insides, frantically checking my surroundings. Reassuring myself that I’m not trapped beneath the ground, trying to stutter free. That I’m in my suite where I’m safe and alone, excluding my gluttonous waif.
Borg gusts back with a groan. “Poor sweet boy,” he drudges out, seeping down into a misty cushion of satiated glee. “That was deeeeeeelicious.”
With trembling hands, I pour myself another half glass I toss back, then slam it on the table. “Glad it sufficed,” I grit out, leaning forward to knead my eyes. “Roan?”
“My brothers who dwell in Bothaim’s dungeon have spoken with him.”
My spine snaps straight. “What do you mean the fucking dungeon?”
“Don’t murder the messenger,” he drones, far slower than I wish he’d speak. “Roan regrets to inform you that he—and this is a direct quote—‘messed up and will go on trial before the Tri-Council for allegedly stealing the Book of Voyd.’”
My heart plummets so fast it makes my head spin. “When?”
“Three daes,” Borg drawls, yawning as he shrinks to a small thread of fog, feeding himself into his vial without another word. Leaving me alone with the silence.
I stare, mind spinning, unable to waft away the reek of impending war.
“Dammit,” I mutter, then cork the vial and stand, pocketing Borg. I stalk to my door and yank it open, coming face-to-face with Pyrok at the threshold—red hair askew, hand raised in a fist like he was just about to knock. Looking like he rolled off his pallet, then stumbled straight here.
I meet his gaze, preparing to break the news that his younger brother is awaiting trial in Bothaim, when I notice his pale complexion. That, and the uncharacteristic panic in his wide green eyes.
My gut drops.
“What is it?”
A furry miskunn hand comes up to rest on his shoulder, gripping gently.
I frown. “Lumo?”
She peeps into view, her pale-pink eyes so big within her small face. “I’s here.” She clambers higher, pulling up until she’s crouched on Pyrok’s shoulder, her colorful smock gathered around her small trembling body as she reaches out her hands.
Frowning, I take her in my arms, quick to tuck her against my chest.
She bundles her long limbs and nuzzles in.
I stroke the pale fur on her face, glancing back at Pyrok. “Has she seen something?”
“Yuuup.” He reaches back and scratches his head. “There’s, ahh— There’s a moonfall coming.”
All the breath escapes my lungs.
“A bads one,” Lumo murmurs from where her face is hidden amongst the folds of my shirt, her voice barely audible over my thundering pulse. “Lumo scared.”
My heart squeezes, arms tightening with protective urge.
Not for the first time, I wish her visions had started when she was a bit older, not fresh from the cold pouch of her slain mah. Seeing such things is hard on anyone, let alone such a young pup.
“Do you know where it’ll land, Lumo?”
“Not one moon.” She snuggles deeper into my chest, like she’s seeking comfort. “Many moonses.”
Creators …
I spare a glance at Pyrok still scratching the back of his head, his complexion almost green, making it look as though he’s about to fold forward and vomit—a quiet conversation passing between us.
“How many, Lumo?” I cup her cheek and rub behind her ear, hoping to bring her comfort. “Did you see how many will fall?”
She peeps up.
Eyes brimming with tears, she curls her tufted tail around her head, trapping my hand against her cheek. “Too many.”